Dear Dominique

I never said half of what I meant to say. I suppose that's a common line. I meant to tell you I always wanted to perform rituals with you. When I put my hand to your lips, I wanted to not feel like a fool at all. I envisioned us acting out heavy ceremonies together in order to deepen the colors of our lives. I've always wanted to say there is music out there which reminds me of all the places in the world we ever, and never, got to.

I remember taking bread and wine with you that was always just fine, whole, rough, simple. No signs, no symbols. I always wanted it to be more dramatic, grander, but it was always plain. When I drink lately, alone, though, it seems that those nights were short passages of perfect fiction. It's good that I can't have them anymore. It's only right somehow. I keep drinking even though it still feels half empty without you in the room.

It's been more years than I care to remember and I still measure so much of what I do up to you. I must seem worse than cynical to the few people around me because it's just so obvious my life and works drown out in the shadows thrown by the bright light of recollection and constant comparison.

I'm mostly writing to see if you remember the night we met, when we walked on the piers. Sometimes I feel like that night was the last chance I ever had to start all over again. It would make me feel more real either way, to know whether you honestly remember or not, maybe think about that night on occasion. Do you look out your window sometimes, into the evening clouds, and remember again all the humble hopes we had? They haven't really withered away, you know, those visions, they're just tamer now, more forgettable.

I remember all the inner treasures we aimed for, and continue to make good of my days as is a person's only duty. I do so as if you're watching. Why am I so sure that you are?